


The Dancer and His Doctor

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Cambridge, Dancing, Gay Bar, John Is Gayer Than He'd Like To Believe, John Saves The Day, M/M, Sherlock dip-dyed his hair, Sherlock is Extremely Gay, Sherlock is a dancer, Students, Unilock, sherlock wears leather, well...gay club
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-16 18:02:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3497702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is dragged to a gay club by his flatmate Anthony. There, a dancer catches his eye. The next morning, he finds Anthony perpetuating what he can only describe as attempted rape. He chucks Anthony out for that, only to discover the possible victim is the dancer from the night before, a student like himself, and, as things turn out, his new flatmate.<br/>(Sherlock is a gay baby dancer chemistry student, John is a self-proclaimed "100% straight" medicine student. When Sherlock moves in, John's ideas are sorely tested.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whoever made that post about cybergoth/industrial dancer Sherlock](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=whoever+made+that+post+about+cybergoth%2Findustrial+dancer+Sherlock).



Club music thumped in John’s ears, and he stared down at his drink, wishing slightly that he could shut it out. The flickering strobe lights were making him dizzy – a little sick, actually. Then he heard his name, and looked up to see a few of his friends approaching. He sighed - time to make pretence of happiness. His friend – and roommate - Anthony had just passed his final medical exam, which he’d had to retake, and they were celebrating. There were a few of them there. The destination had been Anthony’s choice, and he had chosen (and John could curse him for it) a gay nightclub. It was dark, and the lights were flashing. The music was far too loud, in John’s opinion, and men kept trying to hit on him. He was, he reminded himself, perfectly content with his sexuality. He was straight. Of course he was. How could he be anything else? On the whole, he was having a rough night of it.

“Having fun?” Anthony asked, leaning over his shoulder.

“Mm-hmm.” John forced himself to smile. There was a bit of chatter, and then most of the group dissipated. He was left sitting beside Mike Stamford, who gave him a sympathetic look.

“Not enjoying it, John?”

“Not in the least.” John admitted, looking up at his friend.

“You should go out and try it – get into it. You’ll have more fun that way.”

“No I bloody won’t! Mike…I’m not gay. I’m really not. I swear.”

“No, of course not.” Mike said, the corners of his mouth creeping up into a smile. He could have pointed out to John that things weren’t always black and white, that bisexuality was a thing, and a thing that really seemed to apply to his friend, but he was well aware that John would be entirely unreceptive. They stood and sat in silence for a minute or so, unsaid things brewing in the air, until Mike wandered off to procure another drink.

John looked around, taking in the sights and smells of the place. Everything smelled of alcohol, and sweat, and perfume. It was a strange scent, mingled, tangy and intoxicating. In between nauseating flashes of light, he was able to observe the tableau before him. Men and women danced in the middle of the floor, twisting and turning to the wild beat of the music. People laughed over drinks – flirted, kissed, played at games of pool at the side of the room.

Then the music stopped, for a moment. Everyone turned. “And now,” said a voice, apparently disembodied – John couldn’t identify the source. “We present to you Everyday Angels dance troupe, who will be performing at the front of the stage for the next half-hour. No need to watch them if you don’t fancy it, though – keep dancing!” The voice vanished as soon as it had come, and the music started up again.

Everything was exactly as before, except a group of men and women had come up to the raised dais at the front of the dancefloor and begun, in formation at first, to dance. John’s eye was caught by one of them, a rather striking young man with high cheekbones and dark curls dip-dyed in shocking pink and blue. He wore black lipstick – even from this distance John could pick that out – and was dressed in a black leather jacket, bright pink leggings and spiked high-heeled boots. It was an odd outfit, to say the least, but it certainly caught the eye. Not that he was the only one dressed like that. No indeed – the whole troupe was dressed the same way.

After a while, John made his excuses to Anthony (lots of work to do in the morning, let yourself into the flat, et cetera et cetera), and left, a little tipsy, pulling his coat around himself as he walked into the bitter cold of the London night. When he got home, he changed into his pyjamas, checked his blog for comments, made a cup of tea and got into bed, where he fell asleep, exhausted.

He was pretty heavily under – so much so that he didn’t notice Anthony coming home.

The next morning, he awoke with a headache and a strange taste in his mouth to remind him of the night before. He thought, as he got up, that he could hear some sort of sound. As he tied his dressing gown cord about his waist he became sure of it. And when he went out of the bedroom and into the hallway, he quite suddenly knew what it was.

The sound was coming from Anthony’s room, and it was the sound of someone protesting. He heard cries of “please” and “no”, “stop” and “don’t” in a tone that suggested fear and exclamation marks. Acting on instinct, he rushed into the room, not stopping to knock, and came across a pretty hideous scene. Anthony, wearing nothing and clearly not having been to sleep since the night before (John liked to wake with the dawn, so it was likely that he had only just got home from the club), was pinning down the wrists of another man, who was also naked. It was the other man who was protesting.

Being a reasonably quick soul, John realised what had happened fairly quickly. The other man wouldn’t be naked if they hadn’t been going to have sex – presumably, at least – and now he’d changed his mind and Anthony, inebriated, wasn’t listening. But his drunkenness was no excuse, and nor was an impression of former consent. This was, as far as John was concerned, most probably attempted rape.

He jumped forward in an instant and dragged Anthony away, pulling off his own dressing gown and covering the other man in it. (He had no wish to see his roommate naked. No wish to see any man naked, he reminded himself. After all, he _was_ straight.) Anthony protested, but John just told him to shut up and pulled him from the room.

Outside, he turned to his flatmate. “You disgust me.” he said, his voice low and serious. “And you haven’t paid your share of the rent for the past month. That was a crime being committed, Anthony, as far as I’m concerned, so you can get the fuck out of this flat. I’ll send your stuff to Mike. I have no wish to be your friend anymore. Now put some clothes on and fuck off. And don’t even _think_ about touching that man again.”

Anthony looked devastated. Apparently the news had sobered him up more than a little. But he did meekly as he was told – John Watson could be a very frightening man when he tried. Once he’d gone, John realised quite how sore his head was and decided to play hunt the aspirin. He was just taking a paracetemol when a head peeked round the doorway of Anthony’s room. A young man with an oddly familiar mop of brown curls, tendrils poking out in pink and blue. He was wearing a bizarre sort of outfit…and one which John thought he recognised. Where from, though?

It was as the man made his way out that John caught the gracefulness of his movement, and he realised – he was the dancer from the night before. Way, way out of Anthony’s league, John thought, and then caught himself thinking it, and quickly stopped.

“I-I really am sorry about all this.” the man said, attempting a smile. His voice was deep, like water over rocks. John hadn’t been prepared for that.

“No, I’m the one who should be apologising. Anthony’s an arse sometimes, but I never thought he’d…” John trailed off, unable to articulate it properly.

“No, of course you didn’t. It was probably my fault really – I mean he was so drunk, and so insistent, that I agreed to come back here, but then when it came to it I just couldn’t.”

“No. Don’t ever…don’t say things like that. Of course it wasn’t your fault. People change their minds all the time. Anthony’s to blame.” John reached for his water. His voice was faltering slightly.

“Perhaps,” the dancer suggested. “It would be easier not to place blame anywhere, now.”

“Yes. I told Anthony to go,” John explained. “I couldn’t have him in the flat, not after that. Means I’m going to be short on rent though.” He sighed.

The dancer looked at him, a new expression in his eyes. “You know,” he said, slowly. “I’ve been looking for a new flatmate for a while. Perhaps, if you didn’t object, I could take Anthony’s place.”

John was astounded. “You mean, after all that you’d really want to stay here.”

“Yes. The flat is nicely situated, close enough to both library, college and lecture halls to manage. It’s roomy enough, and you’re plenty more friendly than anyone else I’ve come across.”

“College? You’re at the university?” John asked.

The man smiled. “Yeah. Chemistry. I’m at Christ’s.”

John grinned. “Medicine at Trinity, personally speaking. It’d be nice to have another student around.”

“You’re telling me – there’s not a single quiet place to work on a paper in my current flat.” That made it for John, whose heart went out to a fellow suffering student.

“Well, I guess you can stay here. My name’s John, by the way – John Watson."

“Sherlock Holmes.” They shook hands. And that, in essence, was how Sherlock moved into John’s little flat in central Cambridge, and how their complicated relationship began.


	2. Stage One: Denial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just what it says on the tin. John is falling for Sherlock; John is frantically trying to deny this. I had writer's block, don't judge this chapter.

A couple of nights after Sherlock moved into the flat, he and John, now just about comfortable with one another, were in the small living room of the flat, which had the kitchen on one side. John was updating his blog, tea balanced precariously on the arm of his chair, his laptop on his knees. Sherlock was lying on the sofa, feet up on the arm, his ankles crossed, reading a book on the identification of cigarette ash. His tea sat beside him on the floor, untouched and slowly going cold.   
John pressed the publish button on his screen and shut his laptop triumphantly. Putting it on the floor and taking his tea up in both hands, he shifted slightly in his seat so he was facing his flatmate. “What’re you reading?” he asked.  
“A book.” was Sherlock’s succinct reply. A smile played upon his hidden lips. “I’d have thought even you could work that out, John, slow as you are.”  
John grinned, picked a cushion up off the floor and threw it at him. He was a good shot, too; the book was tipped from Sherlock’s hands. He looked up in mild irritation mixed with amusement. “Now I’m not reading anything.” he complained.  
John laughed. “You complete and utter wazzock, Sherlock. I meant, what’s the book about?”  
“Criminological identification.” Sherlock said.  
His flatmate raised an eyebrow. “You what now?”  
“The identification of evidence found at crime scenes, John.”  
“Why are you worrying about crime scenes? You’re a chemistry student, for god’s sake, not a forensics guy. I’m not even sure they do forensics here.”  
“They don’t, really.” Sherlock agreed. “Unlike for most things, the forensics course here isn’t actually the best. And I didn’t take it because I’m planning to do it for a PhD.” he added.  
“You want to do a PhD in detectoring, and yet you’re studying chemistry and dancing on the side? You confuse me.” John said, shaking his head in disbelief. And you amaze me. Intrigue me. Make me wonder that anyone can be that clever and that annoying.  
“Detection, John.” Sherlock corrected, placidly. “Detectoring isn’t a word. You just invented it.”  
“Whatever you say, oh grammar Nazi that you are.” John held his hands up in mock surrender.  
Sherlock sighed, apparently not even deigning to comment on that. Then, reaching down to pick up his book, he returned to reading. John watched him, and found himself admiring his flatmate’s graceful curves, the delicate contours of his body. Everything about him held a certain poise: the gentle curl of his wild dark hair, the piercing blue of his eyes (which, when directed at John, were more often than not being rolled) and the way they sparked when he got hold of an idea, the sharp lines of his high cheekbones in the paleness of his face, the elegant arch of his bare feet, the lithe and supple pose of his body, the way he always looked like a wary big cat, with that ever-present sense of being taut and poised ready to pounce or to fly should the need arise.  
John shook his head in a naïve attempt to dispel the thoughts. Somehow they seemed to be surpassing mere appreciation of another man’s body and slipping into something else, intruding into a part of his heart and mind that he liked to consider entirely devoted to those of the female sex. He was comfortable in his sexuality, he told himself. He was straight. He simply wanted to hold some of Sherlock’s grace. That was it. It was envy. Of course it was. It wasn’t as if he fancied him or anything. No. God no. Perish the thought.  
“How’re your classes going?” John was shaken to attention, Sherlock’s voice slicing into his personal frustrations like a beam of sunlight in a dusty room, dazzling him slightly.   
“What?” he asked, frazzled brain cells struggling to work out what had been said.  
“I said,” Sherlock repeated, irritably. “How’re your classes going?”  
“Oh, fine.” John’s reply was curt, and he knew it. He sighed. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I was distracted.”  
“I know. Thinking about other things.”  
And does he know, this mind reader I’ve found, that I was thinking about him? John wondered. He hoped not. “Yeah.” he said. “How are your studies, since we’re on that topic.”  
“Reasonable.” with John that would have sounded cold, disdainful, but slipping from Sherlock’s lips, with that slight shrug of the shoulders, it somehow carried something far warmer. Oh, John had no doubt Sherlock could be disdainful. You could see that when he sneered at some paper he was supposed to be reading when he didn’t approve of the author’s views. But it wasn’t directed at John, and he was glad of that.  
“Sherlock, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”  
The head with its wild bramble curls whipped round, and Sherlock turned to fix his cutting gaze on John. “Yes?”  
“I… How did you get into club dancing in the first place, Sherlock?”  
“Well, I was at the club anyway, and I was dancing, and a guy from the dance troupe approached me and…” Sherlock paused, then smiled serenely. “Well, he was hot as fuck, so I took both the job and him, for a while. I mean, I dropped him after a while. But I kept the job. I like dancing, it’s fun, keeps me in shape.”  
“Oh. Right.” John was playing the scene out in his mind’s eye. He could see it, Sherlock dancing in wild abandon, the man seeing him, his eye caught. He could see Sherlock looping his arms round the stranger’s neck, running his hands down his back… But he really ought to stop. That sort of thing was more than a bit not good, especially when it involved your flatmate.  
“Thinking again, John?” Sherlock asked, and John turned to see his flatmate’s eyebrow raised, his eyes twinkling.   
He pulled himself together. “No, not really. I’m just tired. Trying to keep my eyes open.”  
“Mm-hmm.” Sherlock pursed his lips, and somehow made the sound derisive, disbelieving, as if he knew better but was humouring John for the sake of it.   
“I’m going to…um…go to bed now, I think.” John said, standing up. He walked across and put his empty mug in the sink, hoping like hell that he wasn’t blushing as much as the heat he felt suggested.   
He walked through to his room and changed into his pajamas, too shamed by his feelings to go out and brush his teeth. Then he lay on the bed, the covers thrown off him. He felt hot, too hot. Oh God, and it was all over Sherlock. He’d only known the man a week! Was he that starved, that broken, that this had happened to him? What had he done to deserve this… It wasn’t as if he’d been denying any sort of sexuality. He’d always liked women, and never thought of anything outside of that…if you used the word never loosely.  
He tried, in the darkness and uncomfort of his emotions, to think of women – girls kissing him, hugging him, doing all those other things to him. But no matter how hard he tried to hold those images in his head, the girl kept morphing into someone else, her long hair melting into wild black curls, her body turning to the lithe, tense-muscled body that sat in the living room. He stopped after a while, merely gave up, turned over and pulled the covers over his body, trying to sleep, hoping it would scare away the images crowding themselves on his overworked brain.


End file.
